A Picture's Worth
by astraplain
Summary: A picture may be worth a thousand words, but they aren't always the ones you want to hear. NOTE: this can be read as a stand-alone story or as a prequel to the story: Four Words.


Laila screamed as she brought the crop down against the flour sack again. She was streaked with sweat and panting, her face flushed with a mixture of emotion and exertion.

"Bastard!" she snarled as she lifted the crop again, her vision filled with the image that had torn her out of her pleasant routine and sent her to the basement in a haze of fury and despair.

It wasn't the only time she'd caught a glimpse of her beloved Ray and his pet in an intimate moment. The first was in Ray's study, with Florian on his knees, just as he should be.

But this... Her hands were sweaty and she tightened her grip on the crop, wanting the discomfort to distract her thoughts. It didn't work. The vision of Florian draped across Ray gently caressing him while Ray looked up into his eyes with such tenderness...

Laila screamed again, tossing the crop down, wishing there was something she could break. She wanted to tear something apart with her bare hands, but there was nothing. Nothing that would fix her broken heart or win Ray's affections back from his precious Amethyst.

Overcome with a wave of weariness and despair, she staggered to the wall and leaned against it, wiping a hand over her face. It was late and she'd be missed soon; she had to find a way to settle herself and return to her duties. No matter what her feelings were, she wouldn't fail in her duties. Ray trusted her and she didn't want to lose that, along with everything else.

She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, picturing Ray in his guise as Noir, his face flushed and eyes bright as he showed off his latest prize - a spectacular diamond and emerald pendant. He'd acquired a few other pieces including a pretty bracelet that he'd slipped onto her wrist with a smile.

"It suits you," he'd said as he took her hand. She'd blushed and stammered out her thanks and he'd brushed a kiss against her cheek before retiring for the evening.

She'd replayed that moment in her head for days, convinced that it was proof that she had Ray's affections while Florian was merely an infatuation - a pretty plaything that would quickly grow tiresome and be discarded. She'd almost felt sorry for him.

And then... Morocco. She'd have to be a fool not to realize what Azura had done to Florian. She 'd softened towards him then - Florian had been so damaged. Besides, they shared a survivor's bond now - Florian, Ray and Laila.

She expected Florian to stay withdrawn, to use that formal politeness as a protective barrier. For a while that's exactly what he did. But then, slowly, that barrier weakened and Ray managed to slip inside. She watched it happen, as Ray wore the barrier down with light touches and a gentle manner.

Eventually the barrier was gone. Soon after, Florian stopped sleeping in his own bed.

Still Laila passed it off as a sign of Ray's persuasive skills and his refusal to lose anything he wanted. She'd convinced herself that, now that Florian was no more pure than the rest of them, he had taken his rightful role in Ray's household - as that of Ray's personal whore.

Catching them alone in Ray's study with Florian on his knees in front of Ray, both their clothing in disarray, had served to convince Laila how correct her assumptions were. She'd been content with that. She had no reason to be jealous of a whore. But now...

The image replayed in her mind again, every detail of Florian's ivory pale torso pressed against Ray's darker body, Florian's hair draped across him like strands of gold. And worst of all - their hands, intertwined, clinging to each other as if they couldn't ever be apart. Ray's beautiful eyes on Florian and Florian just as spellbound by Ray.

There was no mistaking it, no finding other meaning. It was the plainest of truths and it was seared into Laila's mind, not even allowing her the dignity of self-deception.

And so she stood alone in the basement, white knuckled and nauseous, clutching at the fragments of her broken heart.

::end::


End file.
